


Darkness of the Soul

by Dawnfire11



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Caring John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, No Slash, PTSD Sherlock, Sherlock Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 22:50:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnfire11/pseuds/Dawnfire11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock revealed that he wasn't dead, John was hurt, having spent the last two years mourning his friend. But little did he know, Sherlock too was haunted by the two years away, and what happened to him during that time. Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! I just got an AO3 account and I decided in order to spread my fanficitons to more viewers that I should post them here as well. XD My ff.net account is under the same username (Dawnfire11). There are more works there so feel free to check out my writing!
> 
> Anyways, please enjoy this fanfiction.... Feel free to leave a comment! XD 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
> 
> Warning: Spoilers for The Empty Hearse. Some descriptions of torture and possible trigger warnings.

_Running... running... running... The trees around him were closing in, the darkness pressing down on his body, the air rushing in and out of his lungs, making him gasp. Shouting in the distance, lights flashing in front of him, the sound of helicopter blades above. His feet pounded against the ground, crunching through the leaves, the snapping of twigs echoing like gunshots through the forest._

_Just a little longer, he knew. But suddenly, he was falling, face slamming into the dirt, the air rushing from his lungs. He struggled to climb back to his feet, pushing himself to his knees, his bloody hands scrabbling against the ground._

_More voices. Shouting. The sound of gunshots. Flashes of red. Pain._

Sherlock jolted awake with a gasp, eyes flying open. He lay on his bed, trembling, feeling the cold air from the vent above him brushing over his face.

They were getting worse.

It had started with just a few images, images of the faces he could remember from his time... away. But now...

He pushed himself upright, rubbing the back of his hand across his face. He looked at the clock, the red block numbers blinking back at him. 5:38 am. No point in going back to sleep now, he thought to himself, getting up and throwing his robe on over his shoulders.

XXXXX

_Later that morning..._

"...Sherlock? Sherlock, dear... the inspector is here to see you..."

Sherlock didn't look up, his fingers aimlessly plucking at his violin strings, fingers landing on the fingerboard in random patterns.

"Sherlock?"

The consulting detective finally glanced over at Mrs. Hudson, his fingers still tapping at the violin. "What?" he asked her.

Mrs. Hudson gave him a strange look, pulling her pink wool sweater tighter over her shoulders. "The inspector is here... something about a case, he said," she responded. "Should I let him up?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, setting his instrument down and standing up from the couch, grabbing his coat from the armchair... John's armchair. He felt a pang shoot through his chest and he frowned. _Emotions... stupid_ , he thought to himself. He would have to deal with those later.

The door creaked open and Lestrade stepped in, his hands clutched around a manila folder. The man looked unkempt, his white shirt wrinkled and his face gaunt.

"Mrs. Hudson said you had a case," Sherlock said to break the silence.

"Yes... Well... maybe.." Lestrade said, looking down at his shoes, unable to meet the consulting detective's cold stare.

"What do you mean, maybe?" Sherlock snapped. "You either have something you need help with or you don't."

"I... I didn't know if you wanted to take any more cases... I mean... It will be your first one since... well, you know..." Lestrade said choppily.

"Of course I want to take your cases," Sherlock responded. "No matter how boring or useless they are. Let me just go tell J..."

Sherlock stopped himself, swallowing. Lestrade gave him a look of sympathy that turned his insides. He  _hated_ that look, as if there was something wrong with him, as if he couldn't care for himself.

"Never mind," Sherlock growled. "What's the address? I'll meet you there…"

Lestrade handed him a slip of paper before exiting the room, looking back one last time at the consulting detective as the door closed.

XXXXX

_Some time later..._

John looked up from his paper as the sound of knocking filled the flat. He let out a small sigh, climbing to his feet and going to the door, unbolting it with fumbling fingers.

"Lestrade," John said, a small hint of surprise in his voice. "I wasn't expecting you. Come in, come in."

The DI complied, stepping into the warm little flat, glancing around. The sitting room was clean, the red curtains thrown open, sunlight spilling in the room. A vase of yellow flowers stood on the coffee table, their bright petals bringing a splash of color to the room.

"Listen, John... we need to talk," Lestrade began.

John could hear the tension in the DI's voice, his thoughts racing. "Sure, sit down. You can tell me anything," he said. He knew the inspector had been having problems with his wife, so he assumed that is what Lestrade wanted to discuss.

Lestrade took a seat on the couch, leaning back into the cushions and taking a breath. "It's... it's about Sherlock..."

John visibly winced, fingers picking aimlessly at a loose thread on his jumper. "I don't want to talk about him." His voice was devoid of emotion, sending a small shiver down Lestrade's spine.

"John, he isn't doing well," Lestrade said, his tone almost begging.

John just shook his head. "I... I can't see him right now, Lestrade. He let me think he was dead for  _two years. Two full years!_ And then he thought it would be funny to 'surprise' me when he came back. He made it a joke.. I don't.." He said, but Lestrade interrupted him.

"Listen to yourself, John. He was your best friend. Yes, you have the right to be mad, but he needs you now. You should have seen him today... He brought along Molly, but he kept making strange comments to someone that wasn't there..."

"What..." John swallowed, his mouth feeling dry. "What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure…," Lestrade commented. "Listen, will you just stop by Baker Street sometime and talk to him?"

"I'll think about it," John said.


	2. Chapter 2

_Sometime after the bonfire..._

_Fire… heat… flames licking at his hands, biting through his gloves, biting at the skin of his exposed wrists. Smoke rising into his face, making his lungs ache and his vision blur._

_John screaming, begging, pleading. "Sherlock, let me out! Help me, please!" The sound of children wailing echoing around them._

_"John!" he coughed. "John!" He couldn't see through the thick smoke, pulling the burning wood away, his heart pounding. He saw a hand, a quick flash of pale skin through the smoke._

_"John!" Sherlock called._

_The smell of burning flesh…. the heat from the fire making sweat drip down his face._

_He finally managed to pull the body from the flames… John's face… barely recognizable, white bone visible in the black skin…._

Sherlock shot up in his bed, sides heaving as he struggled for breath. He closed his eyes, the sight of John's burned body still vivid in his mind. Hands trembling, he pulled his phone off the bedside table, clicking the little circular button.

The screen lit up, illuminating his face and making him blink. Without thinking, he scrolled through his contacts until he reached a name…. John…

_Don't be stupid,_ he told himself, throwing the phone onto the bed and standing up, legs a bit unsteady as he stumbled into the bathroom. _John doesn't care anymore…. He made it quite clear…_

Sherlock flipped on the light, illuminating the room and making him wince, his head pounding. He turned on the tap, letting cool water run over his hands.

This couldn't continue.

 

XXXXX

John had decided not to visit Sherlock. He really had. But then... the bonfire... seeing Sherlock again…

The doctor walked down the empty street, his heart beating a little faster as he stepped up to the blue door, the gold numbers on the door glinting. He took a shaky breath and then unlocked the door, stepping into the flat to see Sherlock, standing on the couch facing the wall.

He was about to say something when he noticed the elderly couple. "Oh, you're busy," the blogger said.

"No no no no, they were just leaving," Sherlock said quickly, pushing the two people from the room.

"If you've got a case…" John said.

"No, no case," Sherlock replied, still herding the two from the room.

John turned his back on them for a moment, taking in the sight of his old flat. It was dust free now, the curtains thrown open to let the light spill in. He smiled as he saw the wall, covered in papers.

"Sorry about that," Sherlock said after he slammed the door, turning to John. The consulting detective took a breath, taking in every detail of John's appearance.

_Happily engaged, no mustache (thank god), had waffles for breakfast._

"Friends of yours?" John asked softly.

"Just my parents," Sherlock responded.

John stared at Sherlock for a second, wondering if the man was joking. Then he rushed to the window, trying to catch one last glimpse of them as they walked down the street.

"Those were your parents?" he asked. "But… I mean… just… they were so…. Ordinary."

"It's a cross I have to bear," Sherlock said, his mouth tilting up in a small smile. The consulting detective let out a little breath. Things were going back to normal.

 

XXXXX

It was several weeks after the train incident- that is what John had taken to calling it, despite Sherlock's protests. John and Mary were a happy couple, the wedding only a few months away.

Sherlock was back to solving cases for Lestrade, pounding on John's door at odd hours of the morning, dragging him off to crime scenes and out to lunch and on wild criminal chases. John had even started blogging again, writing out a few more of Sherlock's adventures.

Now, Sherlock, John and Lestrade stood around the body laying face up on the blue rug, her brown hair fanned out behind her head, her glassy eyes staring up, an expression of pain and fear on her face.

Sherlock was kneeling by the body, his eyes flickering back and forth as he took in the purple bruises around her neck, the blood pooling behind her head, dark brown stains on the rug. He looked up at Lestrade and back down at the body.

"What makes her different?" Sherlock asked.

"What?" Lestrade asked, giving the consulting detective a look of confusion.

"What makes her different?" Sherlock repeated. "You only call me in for cases that you can't solve yourself, the ones that make no sense to idiots like you."

Lestrade let the comment slide. "There was no sign of a break in, no sign of any of her family, no sign of DNA from the murderer. It's almost as if she just dropped dead…"

Sherlock let out a little sigh, rolling his eyes. "Of course you would think that," he muttered. "It's just so _obvious_."

"Well I don't see it," John said.

"She was happily married but had no children, her husband, who was away on a business trip, had recently gotten a divorce, only a few months before their wedding, which was a complete disaster due to the fact that he invited his ex wife to the wedding. But that was a long time ago, everyone seeming to move on. Everyone, except the ex wife, furious with her husband and his new wife. So, using the key that she still had, she walked in and killed her. Simple," Sherlock said.

"How on earth did you figure all of that out?" Lestrade asked.

"I _looked,"_ Sherlock responded. He stood up quickly, alarmed for a moment as darkness flooded the edges of his vision, the world spinning around him.

His knees nearly gave out, his hand gripping the wall and his eyes squeezing shut.

"Sherlock?" He heard the blogger's voice as if through a tunnel. "Hey mate, are you okay?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and opened his eyes, giving John a glare. "Fine," he snapped.

But John knew better. He could see Sherlock's pale face, dark purple bags under his icy eyes, the slight tremor of his hands almost imperceptible as he pulled his coat collar up.

"No, you don't look fine," John said. "You look like you're about to fall over… Sit down…" John tried to pull the consulting detective over to the couch, but the man pulled away.

"I'm fine," he snapped. He slammed the door behind him as he exited the flat, leaving John and Lestrade standing in shocked silence.

"He didn't look good at all," Lestrade said.

"I'll check up on him," John said. "Has he done anything else…?"

"No, I thought he was getting better…" Lestrade said.

"I'll check up on him…" John said, pulling out his phone and dialing.

"Hello?" a woman's voice.

"Hey, Mary… Listen, I'm going to be home a little later than I said," John said.

"What's wrong?" Mary asked, sounding worried. "Is everything okay?"

"It's… Sherlock," John said after a pause. "He seemed fine, but then he almost passed out at the crime scene… I have to go and check up on him…"

"You take all the time you need," Mary responded. "Our date can wait. Tell Sherlock I said hi. Love you…"

 

XXXXX

John opened the blue door, letting the familiar feeling of his old flat wash over him. Mrs. Hudson was baking, the smell of pastries wafting through the air. The sound of a violin reached his ears, the bow scraping across the string, random sour notes making John wince.

He knew that meant Sherlock was irritated, wondering if he should just leave and let the man cool off for a few moments. But he remembered the pale color of Sherlock's face and he dashed up the stairs, opening the door.

Sherlock sat on the sofa, staring at the wall, his violin held to his chin. He glanced over at John, his bow faltering and the screeching notes coming to a halt.

"Sherlock…" John said. He suddenly wished he had planned what he was going to say, his mind at a blank as he stared at the consulting detective.

"What do you want, John?" Sherlock mumbled. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Of course you are," John said, rolling his eyes. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay… You really didn't look that well…"

Sherlock set down the violin. "I. Am. Fine." His voice was a snarl, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Now go _away."_

"Sherlock, you are not 'fine'! The entirety of Scotland Yard can see it! Look in the mirror, Sherlock, and make a bloody deduction! You've got bags under your eyes, you're obviously not sleeping well, you look thin and tired, you almost passed out! That is not fine!"

"John. _Leave. Now."_ Sherlock's words were like a whip, cutting through John's chest.

"Fine. I'll leave, Sherlock," John snapped, spinning on his heel and striding down the stairs, the door slamming behind him.

Sherlock slumped back against the couch, closing his eyes and clutching his pounding head with his hands. He suddenly wished that John would come back, but he shook the feeling off.

_Sentiment... Boring._

It was better if John stayed out of this.


	3. Chapter 3

_“Tell me why you’re here,” the man said in serbian, snarling past his clenched teeth._

_He couldn’t reply, blood dripping from his lips. His shoulders burned with pain as he struggled against the chains binding him to the walls._

_Another explosion of agony ripped through him as the metal rod connected with his side, tearing skin and crunching the bone underneath. He couldn’t keep silent, a moan from escaping his mouth._

_Colors blurred together and everything was loud. His cries were echoing in his own ears as he struggled to get away._

_“We will find John and we will kill him,” his captor said. Sherlock looked up in fright, only to see the face of Moriarty staring back at him, a grin spread across his lips. His black hair was smoothed back from his angular face, his hand clutched around the metal rod. His stance was relaxed, his expression bored as he studied the detective._

_“Oh but that’s right… You chased him away, too scared to show a sign of weakness. That wasn’t very nice,” Moriarty crowed. “He doesn’t care anymore. He won’t come back.”_

_“Stop it,” Sherlock moaned. “Please…”_

_The colors blurred again and now Sherlock was standing upright, on the roof of the hospital, staring down at the ground, watching John’s figure standing at a distance._

_“Sherlock!”_

_The shout tore through his body, but it was too late. He was already falling towards the ground. But this time, there was nothing to catch him at the bottom, no plan, no way to survive._

_He hit the ground._

Sherlock let out a cry as he sat up, his hands flying outwards as if to break his fall. He couldn’t see for a moment, his heart pounding and his head reeling. 

He glanced at the clock on the desk. 11:30. 

He still had time to go back to sleep… but he didn’t want to. He turned on the TV for background noise, staring blankly at the screen. 

 

XXXXX

“...and then he just told me to go away. He snapped at me, Mary. Can you believe that? After all he has put me through, now he decides to make it worse and push me away,” John said. 

Mary snuggled closer to him on the couch, looking up into his face. “He sounds like he needs your help,” Mary said. John studied her face, her blonde hair shining in the morning sunshine coming in through the window. She was beautiful. 

“I offered him my help,” John responded. “But he pushed me away.”

“John…” Mary said, her hand resting on his leg. “You know I love you… But I want to ask you something… You said that he made you go through all of this stuff over the last few years, but do you have any idea what Sherlock went through while he was away?”

“Yeah… remember? He hunted down Moriarty’s men….” JOhn replied.

“But John, did he give you details? Do you actually know what happened?” Mary asked. 

John let out a breath, his heart falling in his chest. His vision blurred slightly as he realized. Sherlock hadn’t told him anything about his time away… at all. “Oh my god,” he muttered. 

Mary looked at him pointedly and John sat up, pushing her gently off him and standing up. “I have to go…” he said, throwing his coat on. 

 

XXXXX

Sherlock was still sitting on the couch when the sun rose, staring at the television screen. 

He didn’t bother getting up as he heard Mrs. Hudson bustling downstairs. He just sat and stared as reruns of Doctor Who flashed across the screen. 

His phone vibrated against his leg, making him jump out of his stupor, pressing it to his ear. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said. 

“Hey, Sherlock. We have another case if you’re up to it…” Lestrade sounded hesitant. 

“For the last time, I’m not a child. I can take care of myself,” Sherlock snapped. “Whats the address?”

Lestrade told him and Sherlock stood up, stumbling his way down the stairs. He made it to the door and out into the street just as John walked up. 

“Sherlock!” John said. “I….”

“Good, I was just about to call,” Sherlock said. “We have another case.”

“But…” John began. Sherlock paid no attention, already walking down the street. John had to jog to catch up with him. 

 

XXXXX

They made it to the crime scene, Sherlock jumping out of the cab and stepping up to the yellow caution tape. Lestrade was waiting, tapping his foot nervously against the asphalt. The lines of worry fell of his face when he spotted the two men coming up towards him. 

“Sherlock! John! I was wondering when you would get here….” he said, turning and leading them into the old building. 

Sherlock’s heart sped up as he stepped into the darkness, the stone walls pressing in on either side of him. 

_“Tell me why you have come and then you can sleep.”_ The voice echoed in his mind, making him freeze and clench his hands into fists. He couldn’t afford this now!

“Sherlock? You’re blocking the door, mate...” 

John’s voice made him jump imperceptibly, stepping forwards to the body, which was lying face down. Blood pooled on the concrete by the victim’s head. 

_He could feel the cold metal chains around his wrists, a trail of warm blood running down his forehead. His vision blurred as…_

“...Sherlock?”

He felt a hand on his shoulder and he brushed it off, taking a step forwards, kneeling next to the body. His knees were trembling slightly and he placed one hand on the floor, trying to steady the tremors. 

_Focus on the case,_ his mind snarled at him. _Nothing else matters. The body is just transport._

But he couldn’t shake the images off. 

_Warm air tickled the side of his face and he clenched his eyes shut. “Who are you?” his captor said, the sound of his voice echoing around him, making spikes of pain jolt through his skull._

_“All you have to do is tell me your name. Then it will stop,” the man said. “The pain will end.”_

_Sherlock didn’t answer, and he felt the sting of a whip on his back, crying out as the leather bit into his skin._

_Pain. Pain. Pain. PAIN._

_No! John. John. John. John. John..._

 


	4. Chapter 4

John stood off to the side, watching as Sherlock knelt next to the body. The consulting detective was completely silent, his body unmoving, his head turned downwards. John couldn’t see his friend’s face in the shadows, but he could make out a slight tremble of the man’s shoulders. 

“Sherlock?” the blogger asked, his voice echoing off the stone walls. There was no response. 

Sherlock could hear John’s voice as if from a distance, calling to him through a long tunnel, echoing off the walls of his mind and sending small stabs of pain into his brain. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm his thoughts, trying to get a hold on his trembling, betraying transport. 

_You. Are. Fine._ His mind screamed at him. _You are with John. You are safe._

_He could feel the cold chains biting into his wrists, could feel the warm trickle of blood down the side of his head as he scrambled to get away._

_No! Control. Control. Mycroft’s voice echoed in his skull. See, Sherlock? Caring is never an advantage. This is what happens when you get close to someone._

_The hollow thud of a metal pipe smashing into soft flesh brought him back, receding into his mind, a place where John could not follow. He cried out, the sound echoing around the dark cell. Someone shouted at him in serbian. He tried to answer, wanting to tell them anything, anything that would get them to stop._

_Please. Please._

_John._

He pulled himself from the memory, feeling his whole body shudder with the effort. 

“I...” he said, his breath coming in small pants. 

He turned and fled from the room. 

XXXXX

A warm hand fell on John’s shoulder and he glanced back, seeing Lestrade. 

“What...?” the DI couldn’t finish his sentence, swallowing thickly and clearing his throat. 

John didn’t respond, stepping closer to Sherlock and kneeling down. The only thing between them now was the figure lying on the floor and a pool of red blood on the cold concrete. 

He still couldn’t see Sherlock’s face but he could now make out the rapid rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest. 

“Sherlock...” John repeated. “Sherlock, can you look at me?” 

There was no response and John’s heart rose into his throat, making it hard to breathe. Suddenly, the detective cried out, hands scrabbling on the ground as he pushed himself away from John. 

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed, resisting the urge to rush forwards. 

“Please.”

The word was whispered so softly that John almost missed it. His blood was ice in his veins, making his breath freeze in his chest. 

Lestrade made a move to step forwards, but John held up a hand, laying it on the DI’s shoulder and stopping him firmly. 

“Sherlock, what’s wrong? What’s going on?” John said, taking a small step forwards.

“Please. Stop... I’ll tell you what you want... Please just stop.”

John froze in his tracks, his foot hovering over the ground, his toe brushing the floor. There was no movement in the room, everything still, as if balancing on the edge of a cliff. 

“Sherlock?” John asked. 

The younger man seemed to jolt forwards, his whole body trembling. He tried to say something, looking John straight in the eyes. 

John could see a slight film of tears in the detective’s eyes and he took a step forwards. But before he could reach his friend, Sherlock bolted from the room, his coat tail swishing behind him. 

Lestrade watched him go, turning to look at John. He didn’t have to say anything, his head giving a small nod to the blogger.

John turned and followed Sherlock at a run, not waiting to see if the DI followed. 

XXXXX

John walked up the steps of 221B, not hesitating at the door, swinging it open and stepping into the flat. 

Sherlock was sitting on the couch, his violin in his hands, his finger’s stroking the cool wood of the scroll. John noted Sherlock’s tense muscles, his breath still uneven and his blue-green eyes slightly clouded with pain. 

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock snapped. The voice made John jump back a step, Sherlock’s eyes boring holes into his skull. 

“What do you mean? I’m here to check on you, Sherlock...” John said. 

“Check on me?” Sherlock responded, his voice clipped and emotionless. “I can assure you that I am perfectly fine... Now go and have dinner with your friends or do whatever normal people...” 

Sherlock stopped, his hand going lax and the violin falling to the floor, clattering onto the carpet. Sherlock made no move to pick it up, his eyes clenching shut. He took a shuddering breath through his nose, his hands going to either side of his head. 

“Sherlock!” John shouted, rushing forwards. 

“I’m fine...” Sherlock snarled through his teeth. 

“No, don’t give me that _shit_. You are obviously not fine, Sherlock...” John said. “Please just tell me what’s wrong.”

“Can’t... breathe.. chest...,” Sherlock finally said, his eyes opening and looking straight into John’s own. 

John had never seen his friend look so afraid, so vulnerable. His brain rushed through a list of possible medical conditions, and he didn’t take long to deduce what was wrong. 

“Ok Sherlock, I want you to lay down for me, yeah?” He asked. “Just straight back onto the couch...”

Sherlock didn’t answer him and John reached forwards, gently resting his palms on either side of the consulting detective’s hands. He pulled Sherlock’s hands down and the younger man opened his clouded eyes in confusion. 

“Wha’sappening?” He slurred as John pushed him back onto the couch. 

“Don’t speak,” John said. “Just breath. You’re having a panic attack.”

“Not...” The word was mumbled as Sherlock’s breath came faster. “I’m not... not.. not..” Sherlock’s eyes were wide and his face paled. 

“Sherlock... calm down. You are okay... you just need to breathe properly....” John said. He grabbed one of Sherlock’s trembling hands, placing it on his chest and taking a deep, slow breath. “Breathe with me, Sherlock...”

Sherlock tried taking a deep breath, but the air caught in his throat, making him cough and gasp. “Can’t,” he blurted. 

“Yes you can. Sherlock, you are a bloody genius,” John said. “I have complete faith in you.”

It took several minutes before the consulting detective’s breath evened out, his tremors dying down to the occasional shiver. 

Sherlock sat up, leaning back against the couch and closing his eyes. He could still feel a sense of fear, could still feel panic dancing through his chest. 

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” John asked. 

Sherlock shook his head. “No...”

“Sherlock, please... You need to tell me what’s going on so I can help you... None of this will get better unless you talk to someone about it... I would know...” John responded. 

Sherlock opened his eyes, wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his clammy hand. “I.. I can’t right now.”

Sherlock hated how weak he sounded, how useless and childish. But he couldn’t stop the tears that prickled behind his eyes. 

“You can go now, John,” Sherlock said. He just wanted to be alone, to collect himself in peace. 

John just shook his head. “If you think I would leave you alone right now, you must be stupid,” John said. “I think you should come stay with Mary and I for a little while.”

Sherlock looked up at John hurriedly, shaking his head. “I can’t do that...” he said. 

“Yes you can and you will. You can sleep on the couch... I don’t want you to have to go through this... whatever this is... alone, Sherlock. If you won’t come live with us for a bit, I may have to call Mycroft and tell him what has been going on.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “Don’t.”

“Ok then,” John said. “Go pack a bag.”

“Right now?” Sherlock asked. 

“Yes,” John responded. “I will wait here.”

Without another word, Sherlock walked from the room, going through the hallway and into his room, shutting the door behind him. 

John watched his old flatmate go, unable to shake off the nagging worry. 

XXXXX

John slipped the key into the keyhole, the lock clicking open. He pushed the door open, holding it wide and gesturing for Sherlock to come it. 

The sitting room of John’s new flat was comfortable. Sherlock noted the wallpaper, the style similar to that of Baker Street’s own. A red couch sat in the middle of the room, facing a large television. The DVD player was on, bright numbers flashing over and over again, making Sherlock’s head ache.  

“You sit here,” John said, waving one hand at the couch. “Let me go talk to Mary.”

John walked down his narrow hallway and into the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind him. Mary was sitting on the bed, her tablet resting in her small hands. She looked up with a smile. 

“Hey,” she said. 

“Hi...” John responded, not sure how to continue. “Mary... I know I should have called to ask you this, but I offered Sherlock a place to stay for a bit...” 

Mary looked at her lover for a long moment, noting the worry lines on his forehead. “What happened?” she asked. 

“Sherlock had...” John had to clear his throat, feeling as if he had tried to swallow an apple whole, a lump in his throat making it hard to breathe. “He had a panic attack, Mary.... Sherlock Holmes. The sociopath. One moment he was studying a dead body, the next he was running out of the room, unable to breathe. I don’t know what’s wrong with him and he wont tell me.”

Mary placed a hand on John’s face, leaning forward and pressing her lips to his. After a moment, she pulled away. “Of course he can stay here,” Mary said. “Of course he can.”

XXXXX

_“Did you really think you could trick me?” the man asked in serbian. “You will have to be punished for this...”_

_Sherlock tried to move away from his captor, his hands bound again, stretched out to expose his naked back to his torturer. A cool breeze brushed over his skin, making him tremble. Warm fingers pressed to the side of his face, turning it upwards._

_“Look at me, you filthy piece of...”_

_Whatever the man said was lost on Sherlock as pain exploded through him, tearing his insides apart like a lion ripping into a fresh kill. He couldn’t see what was happening. He only knew that it hurt. Hurt more than anything he had ever felt before._

_“Please,” he breathed out. “Please!”_


	5. Chapter 5

John wasn't sure what woke him at first. The darkness pressed down on him, the only source of light coming from the clock on his bedside table, red numbers blinking at him innocently. His hand drifted to the side, fingertips brushing Mary's warm, soft skin. She was breathing peacefully, lying facing away from him.

He let his eyes close, Mary's steady breathing lulling him back to sleep.

Several minutes later, he jolted awake again, this time nearly falling off the bed as he sat up. Another scream echoed off the walls, making his heart pound and his breath catch in his throat.

_Sherlock._

He bolted from his bed, flying out of the room and into the darkened sitting room beyond.

Sherlock was writhing on the couch, his feet pinned together, tangled up by the blanket. His hands scrabbled against the couch's red fabric, as if searching for something, some means of protection against the invisible foe he was facing. He let out a moan, breath coming in huge gasps, sweat beading on his face and dripping into his curls.

John wasted no time, throwing himself to the ground next to the consulting detective's head.

"Sherlock," he said loudly. "Sherlock, wake up!"

The man let out another scream, shifting away from John's comforting voice, as if it were the cause of the pain.

John knew if he touched the dreaming man, he risked startling the detective, but he could see no other option. He had to get Sherlock out of the nightmare. He set his hand on the detective's shoulder, squeezing lightly.

"Come on, Sherlock. Please wake up," John said.

John felt a fist connect with his jaw, but he had been ready, his muscles tensed in preparation for the attack. He felt a flash of pain tear through his face, but he stayed upright, hands shaking Sherlock.

"Sherlock, wake up," he said, his mouth tasting metallic. Something warm dripped from the corner of his lips, trailing down his face. He knew without looking that it was blood.

"Sherlock!" John was shouting himself now, pulling the man into a sitting position in one final effort to bring the detective out of it.

Sherlock's eyes flew open, and he looked wildly around him, breaths coming in huge sobs. Slowly, gradually, he became aware of John sitting in front of him, hands holding him up.

John was about to say something comforting when Sherlock pushed him away, bolting out of the room like a frightened animal.

"Wait!" John exclaimed, catapulting to his feet and following the detective down the hallway.

Sherlock bolted into the bathroom and slammed the door in John's face. The lock clicked in place.

XXXXX

Sherlock could feel his captor's hands on him, shaking him, yelling at him. He tried to struggle away, tried to push himself to the corner of the room, but he couldn't move.

He screamed as pain laced through his shoulders. It must be the whip again, his brain supplied him. Something was binding his feet, but his hands were unbound. His fist flew up and his hand connected with warm flesh.

He could hear someone shouting his name, not the fake name he had supplied to his captor, but his actual name.

"Sherlock!"

He peeled his eyes open, trying to see who was holding him in the darkness. His vision adjusted and he could just make out the worried expression on John's face, the trail of blood running down his jaw.

Something rose in his chest, consuming him in a blaze of red, making his chest constrict against his will and his breath catch somewhere deep inside him. He couldn't think.

He bolted.

XXXXX

"Sherlock, open the door!" John said, tapping his knuckles against the white wood. He could hear the sound of retching from behind the closed door.

John glanced behind him to see Mary standing in the hall, her blonde hair tussled. She flipped on the light nodding to John sadly and walking out of the room. John could hear the sound of glasses clinking as Mary began preparing tea.

"Sherlock, please open the door... We need to talk about this," John said.

"Go away!" Sherlock's voice cracked on the words.

"No, Sherlock... Just open the door," John said. "I am not going to leave until I am sure you're okay."

"Just... leave!" This time it was a snarl.

"I can help you," John said, his voice softer.

"I... I don't need your help." The sentence was interrupted by a sob, and John pressed his hands to the door, as if trying to get as close as he could to his friend to comfort him.

"Sherlock, either way, I will get into this room, whether I have to break down the door to get to you. I know you may not want my help right now, Sherlock. But you need my help. I know what you're going through," John said. There was complete silence on the other side of the door. "You feel hot, but at the same time you feel cold. Something has a hold of your heart, squeezing it and making your chest feel tight. You can't get a full breath and you feel dizzy."

Silence.

After a long moment, there was a click of the lock unlatching. John's hand went to the knob, swinging the door open.

The light was flipped on in the bathroom, illuminating the white tiles and the blue shower curtain. The tap was on, cold water splashing into the porcelain sink. John twisted the water off, looking down at Sherlock.

The man sat on the floor next to the sink, his knees drawn up to his chest, face buried in his hands.

John sat next to him, his shoulder brushing Sherlock's trembling form.

"Thank you for opening the door," John said softly. There was no answer, but John was not expecting one. He could feel the man's breath speeding up next to him.

"Sherlock," John said, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I need you to look at me... I can help you if you just look at me."

Sherlock looked up from his hands, still breathing as if he had just run a marathon without stopping for a break. His face was damp and pale, eyes red rimmed.

"Good... that's good..." John said. "Do you feel well enough to come out to the sitting room?"

"I'm not a child," Sherlock said weakly, his voice sounding hoarse. Despite this, he let John help him to his feet and down the hall to the sitting room.

John sat his friend on the couch, looking up when Mary stepped to the threshold of the room, two mugs held in her hands. John held up his open palm, signaling her to stop for a moment. She just nodded and stood still, steam rising from the mugs.

"Mary is going to come in and give us some tea now..." John said, sitting down next to Sherlock.

The man was tense when Mary stepped into the room, his eyes following her path over to the couch. She handed both the mugs to John and the blogger flicked his eyes back to the door, signaling her to leave.

She showed no sign of anger at the dismissal, just slowly headed to the door, leaving the two alone on the couch.

John handed the tea to his friend, watching as he took a few sips. The detective's hands were shaking as he tried to hold the cup steady, tea splashing over his hands. The warm, brown liquid trailed down Sherlock's hand and dripped onto his arm. If it burned him, he didn't seem to notice, continuing to sip his tea in silence.

"We should really talk about this," John said.

"I don't need to talk," Sherlock responded.

"Believe me, Sherlock, it helps. It may not feel like it at the time, but talking really does help... You don't have to tell me everything right now, but..." John trailed off, letting the silence fill in the rest of his sentence.

But I need to know what happened.

But I need to know how I can help you.

"Ok," Sherlock responded. "I... Ok..."

John looked at his friend with mild shock. He shook off the feeling, offering a comforting smile to his friend. "I'm ready whenever you are, Sherlock."

And then Sherlock began to talk.


	6. Chapter 6

"Serbia was the last piece of the puzzle... as soon as I finished there, I could come home, back to London... to 221B..." Sherlock's voice quavered. His finger's picked at the loose thread on his sleeve, pulling uselessly at the fabric.

John wanted to ask Sherlock what he was doing in Serbia, but he stopped himself, knowing that if he interrupted Sherlock now, the man might never continue. The blogger had never seen the detective look so human, so broken. Not after Irene Adler. Not at Baskerville after seeing the hound. Not even when Sherlock was standing on the rooftop of the hospital, feet balancing on the edge, his body leaning forwards to take the plunge.

"But I was hasty."

Sherlock's voice brought John out of his thoughts, and he focused his attention back to the present.

"I didn't cover my tracks... got caught on the way in," he mumbled, his voice weak. "They... shot me with a tranquilizer... Something strong... I couldn't move, couldn't resist as they tied me up... blindfolded me... I thought they would just kill me right off... Sometimes I wish they had," Sherlock said, taking a shuddering breath and pulling his knees to his chest. He wrapped his arms around his body, as if trying to hold himself together, looking as if he let go, he would shatter into a thousand pieces.

"I woke up... my hands chained above me," he continued. John had to lean closer to hear.

"It wasn't so bad at first... the drug kept me oblivious to the pain... It was always the same man..." Sherlock stopped talking, his adams apple bobbing as he swallowed. Sweat shone on his forehead and his trembling hand moved up to wipe it away.

"What... what did they do?" John asked. The detective didn't answer, his breath coming in short, small gasps. It took John a moment to see the glazed look in his friends eyes.

"Sherlock," John's voice rose a bit as he was unable to keep the panic at bay. Sherlock flinched away from the sound, turning away as if he had been struck.

"Sherlock, listen... It's me. It's John. You're just having a flashback," John said, keeping his voice low this time.

Sherlock cried out again and John placed his hand on the man's shoulder. "You're safe... you're alright now..."

The glazed look dropped off Sherlock's face as John's voice pulled him from the dark cave of his mind, the image of the Serbian dissolving, replaced by a familiar warm smile... John's familiar smile.

"Sorry," Sherlock responded, the tension bleeding from his body.

"Don't apologize," John said, struggling to keep the angry bite out of his voice. "Don't ever apologize for this, Sherlock. None of this is your fault." John had to take a breath to stifle the blaze of rage that poured over him. Sherlock didn't deserve this...

They sat in silence for a few minutes, John letting Sherlock collect himself.

"Do you want to continue?" he asked once the silence became unbearable, closing in around them and making the air feel thick as butter.

Sherlock nodded. "The first time, they used a whip," he said, his voice louder than before. He sounded collected now, as if he were simply stating facts for a case, as if none of this concerned him. He was shutting down his emotional side, the comforting logic drowning out the feeling of panic that had crept upon him in the night.

"After the whip, it was burns. I still have scars, mostly on my torso and back, some on my arms and legs. Next they had knives... Then drugs... they saw the track marks and assumed that was something I was familiar with. Then there was a period of darkness, where they left me to detox. Finally, it was the pipe..."

He was staring off into space again, is hands clenching the blanket that covered his legs. John could see the mask that Sherlock had constructed already slipping. It hadn't taken very long.

"How did you survive?" John asked, horrified.

Sherlock turned to John, looking him straight in the eyes for the first time that night.

"You."

That one word, that single syllable made John's heart tear into pieces.

"What?" he asked softly. "What do you mean?"

"You were always there," Sherlock said, leaning back against the couch and closing his eyes. John could see the shine of tears on the detective's face. "I knew it wasn't really you, but... I didn't care at that point. You followed me everywhere, giving advice, calling me stupid, telling me about your boring day at work..."

John put his head in his hands, clenching his teeth. How did his chest hurt this much? It felt like someone was driving an axe into his body, the sharp blade digging through his chest and ripping his heart out.

"The nightmares...?" he asked, picking his head up out of his hands. He had to be strong, had to be brave for Sherlock. "Are they always about Serbia?"

"Sometimes," Sherlock responded. "After the bonfire... I dreamed you had burned alive... your face was..." The man couldn't continue the sentence, his breath catching in his throat. John wanted to stop him, wanted to wrap him up in a hug and let him forget. But the blogger couldn't move, his body frozen, Sherlock's words washing over him like ice water, seeping into his bones and freezing his heart.

"Mostly it was Serbia... This time it was the metal pipe... he kept yelling at me... asking why I was there... I told him anything, anything to get it to stop..."

Sherlock was trembling again, and John moved closer to his friend, placing an arm around his shoulders.

"I want it to stop," Sherlock said, teary eyes looking at John. "Why can't I control it? I've always been able to control it... but..."

Sherlock was sobbing now, and John pulled him close to his chest, his hand stroking through the man's curls. He let the broken man cry into his shoulder, a few tears slipping out of his own eyes and dripping down his nose.

"I know it seems hard right now," John said, loud enough for Sherlock to hear him. "But it will get better. I will make it better..."

Sherlock didn't answer, his body slowly growing limp in John's arms. The blogger stayed still until his legs were numb, until he was sure the exhausted man was dead asleep.

Once he heard the soft snores, he untangled himself from Sherlock, stepping down the hallway, and back to his room.

Mary was sitting on the bed, her worried eyes fixated upon the door. She stood up as John entered.

"Is he alright?" she asked.

"Yeah," John said. "No... I don't know. But he will be, Mary..." He trailed off, unable to put his thoughts into words.

"I have never seen him look so..." John tossed his hands up in the air in frustration. He sat on the bed next to her.

"...scared? Alone? Helpless?" Mary finished for him. Her hand went to John's her soft, warm fingers rubbing slow circles on the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry for sending you away earlier," he said after a while. "Sherlock couldn't handle another person in the room... he... he has been through a lot."

Mary just gave him a sad smile. "I understand," she said. "You don't have anything to be sorry for."

The silence again dragged on. Mary eventually crawled into bed, settling underneath the covers. John wanted to follow her, but he knew he couldn't sleep. His brain was too wired, thoughts swirling around in his head with dizzying speed.

He just sat on the edge of his bed, alert to every noise in the flat, staring at the clock, watching the numbers slowly increase to dawn.

XXXXX

The next morning, by an unspoken agreement, they didn't discuss the events of the previous night.

Mary and John bustled around the flat like it was a normal day, Mary making a plate of eggs and John putting the kettle on. Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom and the sound of the shower spurting to life could be heard around the flat.

John was just settling down for breakfast when there was a knock on the door.

"I'll get it," Mary said, brushing John's shoulder with her hand. John nodded his thanks and turned his attention back to his food. He heard a familiar voice fill his flat and his fork fell, clattering onto the table.

He didn't bother picking it up, instead standing and going to the door where Mary stood, a man in a suit at the threshold of the flat.

"Mycroft," John said. "I should have guessed you would pay us a visit.

"John... I believe we have much to discuss," Mycroft replied, and, without waiting to be invited in by John or his very confused fiancé, he brushed into the flat. His eyes traveled around the little space, taking in the cheap furniture and the peeling wallpaper.

"Who is this, John?" Mary asked tentatively, eyes watching Mycroft with worry.

"Mary, meet Mycroft Holmes," John said. Mary's eyes widened slightly at the last name. "Mycroft, meet Mary."

Mycroft just gave the woman a small nod before he sat down on the couch, his hands folding in his lap.

"Sherlock came home with you yesterday evening and stayed the night. He brought his violin along, suggesting that he would stay for a long while," Mycroft said, his voice cold.

"Yes," John responded. "He's in the shower right now, but if you want to talk to him, he should be out any minute."

Mycroft nodded slightly, eyes fixed on John's own, boring into the blogger with their intensity.

"He hasn't been well," Mycroft began. "He has been going to less crime scenes, has been getting less sleep... My cameras have picked up screams late at night."

John could have sworn he heard a slight tremble in Mycroft's voice, a small betrayal of emotion. But it couldn't be... this was Mycroft Holmes, the bloody British government...

"That's why I brought him here, Mycroft..." John said, and suddenly the anger was back, a knife of hatred digging into his chest. Mycroft should have done something, should have been there for his brother in his time of need.

"Why didn't you do anything sooner?" John asked after the anger had disappeared. He unclenched his fists, relaxing his muscles.

"I was aware it was bad... but I didn't know how drastic the problem was until he left Baker Street to come here," Mycroft said. The mask had fallen back in place, and John was reminded of Sherlock the night before, when he had just been stating facts, pushing his emotions to the back of his mind.

Before John could respond, the bathroom door down the hall clicked open and Sherlock stepped out.

The detective stumbled slightly as he walked into the room, his blue robe wrapped tightly around his too-thin body. Water dripped from his hair, the brown curls a shade darker than normal.

"Mycroft," he said, throwing himself into a chair. "You're slipping."

"I would have been here sooner, but an unexpected conflict arose that had to be immediately dealt with," Mycroft replied quickly, his tone clipped. "A few... minor world powers got into an argument that required my full attention."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, brushing past Mycroft's explanation.

"Can I not just check on my little brother?" Mycroft said, the sarcasm thick on his voice.

"You never 'just check' on someone," Sherlock snapped back. "That implies sentiment."

Mycroft just rolled his eyes. "I've come because you need help."

Sherlock sat up a little straighter, his pale hands clenching the edge of his robe. He had to take a breath before he could speak. "I don't need any help. I've got all I need right here."

"Sherlock, I'm putting you in a facility. I'm putting you somewhere they can help you."

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

"No."

The word was sharp and clipped, cutting through the air like a sharpened dagger. Sherlock's body was stiff, his face stone cold and devoid of emotion. But the tremor in his hands gave him away.

He felt his mind start to close in on himself, darkness clouding at the corners of his vision. His breath caught in his throat. _A facility?_

"This isn't an argument, Sherlock," Mycroft said, his hands steepled under his chin."You need help."

"I already told you, I have help," Sherlock snarled.

"Professional help," Mycroft snapped back.

Sherlock shuddered, his entire body now shaking with tremors as the blackness enveloped his vision. He could already feel the confinement of a facility, could already feel the scrutiny of all of the doctors and nurses. His chest was constricting, someone squeezing his heart in their fists.

Why couldn't he breathe?

His ears felt clogged, the sound of someone yelling barely audible over the pounding of his heart.

He turned and ran, not knowing where he was going, only knowing that he had to get away.

XXXXX

John looked at Mycroft for a moment, his brain freezing for a second. This was not right. Not good at all.

"No."

John gave his friend a look, noting the paleness to his face. He felt his heart drop when he saw the trembles going through Sherlock's shoulder's, running down his arms and making his hands shake like leaves rustling in the breeze.

"This isn't an argument, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "You need help."

"I already told you, I have help," Sherlock snarled back. He was starting to sway, as if the very act of standing there was tiring, his energy bleeding through his body.

"Professional help," Mycroft said, and John couldn't hold back any more.

"Are you insane? Mycroft, a facility wont help him at all!" He clenched his fist at his side, his body stiff and his feet spread as if he anticipated an attack. "That is the worst thing you could possibly do to him! He doesn't need the help and support of random doctors... of random _strangers_. In a facility, he would get _worse_! Not better! Mycroft, he needs you. He needs the support of _you_ and _me_ and everyone he _cares_ about! You will not take him away from me when he needs me the most. Not again! Not ever again..."

He trailed off, his eyes traveling to Sherlock, who was white, his eyes staring off into the distance. The anger immediately bled out into the floor to be replaced by something new, a feeling of worry and helplessness.

"Shit," he mumbled to himself, turning to face the detective. But it was too late. The man catapulted himself out of the room, going to John's bedroom and slamming the door shut behind him.

"You just triggered another episode," John snarled back to Mycroft, rage bubbling up inside his chest once more. The blogger made a move to follow the detective, but a warm hand stopped him, gripping his shoulder tightly.

"You stay here and work this out... I will go to him," Mary muttered softly.

"Thank you," John muttered to her before going back to Mycroft, standing in front of the man.

"You said he had episodes?" Mycroft demanded as soon as John turned back to him.

"Yes," John responded. "He has panic attacks. I've only been present for three of them, but I think they have been going on for a while now."

"This is further proof that my brother needs the help of professionals. There is little you can do to help him," Mycroft said.

"Don't you see?" John realized he was shouting again but he didn't care. "Don't you see what sending him away will do to him?"

"It will help him," Mycroft said.

"No it _won't_!" John's voice was growing hoarse but he didn't care. He just kept on yelling, harnessing the flame of rage that sat smoldering in his core. "You are going to _kill_ him, Mycroft!"

"You're overreacting," Mycroft responded. "If you do not calm down, I will have to physically restrain you."

John resisted the urge to pick up the flower vase on the coffee table and chuck it straight at Mycroft's head. The only thing that stopped him was the thought of what would happen to the British government if the older Holmes brother got injured. He instead chose to clench his fist, his fingernails digging into the fleshy palm of his hand and making pain lace into his hands.

"You are not taking him away from me,"John said, his voice the tone of a soldier, a commander.

"I must," Mycroft said, standing up and turning to face the door that Sherlock had disappeared behind. John braced his feet, standing ready in front of the door.

"You have to listen to me, Mycroft," John said. "This is not what he needs right now. What must I do to convince you of this?"

Mycroft just shook his head, and for once, he let his mask slip, the true emotions he was feeling plain on his face. Pain flashed in his eyes, regret making the wrinkles on his forehead stand out.

 _He doesn't want to send his brother away,_ John realized as he saw Mycroft's pained face. _This is his last option, the only thing he can think of doing that may help._

"You don't have to do this, Mycroft," John said. "There are other ways we can help Sherlock... other, less drastic ways."

"I don't see another option," Mycroft responded, his tone still clipped and professional, despite the topic at hand.

"We could get him a therapist..." John said. "He could stay with me and go see someone every week..."

"What if he turns to drugs?" Mycroft asked.

_Ahhh, so that's what this is about. He's afraid... afraid that with freedom, Sherlock would turn back to... that._

John shook his head quickly. "I won't let that happen. I will watch him."

"But you can't possibly watch him all the time," Mycroft said. "I can assure you that as soon as you let your eyes of my little brother, he will turn back to his old habits again. He needs constant supervision."

"No he doesn't Mycroft," John said. "He needs support. Not oppression."

"I'm sorry John. You were never there when Sherlock was using. You never saw what the drugs did to him. I was. And I can't let that happen again," Mycroft said.

"I won't let him use, Mycroft. I will watch him... and you can pay all of the dealers in the area to keep from selling to him. Please. Do what you know is right," John said. "Locking him up would kill him. Not at first, but eventually it would. You know that."

The room was silent.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of silence, John saw Mycroft's expression waver, his hand going to rub his eyes. "How do I know he will be safe with you?"

"He will, Mycroft. You have my word," John said without hesitation.

Mycroft let his hand drop and then looked John straight in the eye. The emotions were gone. "You have one week. One week to prove to me that he will get better... that what you are planning can actually work. If I see no improvement or if he gets any worse, I will take him to the facility. Do you understand me?"

John let the tension bleed from his muscles, and he released the breath he had been holding. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

"Thank you, Mycroft," John said. "You're making the right choice."

"I hope so," Mycroft said, turning to the door. He turned and gave John one last look. "I warn you, if he goes back to using, I will have you deported within the hour. Take care, Doctor Watson."

And with that, he left the flat, leaving a very shocked John standing alone.

XXXXX

Mary knocked lightly on the door, her hand going to the doorknob. The cold metal bit into her fingers and a shiver went down her spine.

"Sherlock?" she called. "I'm coming in..."

She let the door swing open, slipping inside the room quietly. Sherlock was slumped near the door, his knees pulled up to his chest. His face was hidden by his arms, but Mary could see the shaking of his shoulders.

She felt a wave of worry wash over her and she knelt down next to the man.

"Hey," she whispered. "Sherlock, it's me... Mary." She placed her hands on Sherlock's arms.

"Go away," the detective said. His voice was strong, in contrast to his appearance.

Mary didn't listen, instead choosing to sit next to the man on the floor. She crossed her legs and put one arm around the detective's shoulders, pulling him a bit closer to her.

"It's going to be ok, you know?" she said kindly. "John won't let your brother take you away... He's got it in his head to take care of you and he won't let anyone get in his way. I think that's why he chose to be a doctor."

A small smile grew over her face and she leaned her head against the wall.

"I know," Sherlock said, looking up. His face was dry but his eyes looked red and swollen. "I just... can't stop this."

He waved a hand in the air around him, his nose wrinkled in disgust. He should be able to handle this without help. He should just be able to go right into his mind palace and delete the memories, demolish the illogical feelings that plagued him. But he couldn't.

He had tried many times in the past, every attempt a failure. There was too much pain, too much darkness that engulfed his soul, that ate at his mind until he felt weak and useless.

He was losing himself.

"It's a perfectly logical reaction," Mary responded, pulling him out of his thoughts.

"No it's not. My transport it betraying me," Sherlock said, the frustration in his voice making his words seem harsh. Mary didn't let his tone get to her, choosing instead to move a little closer to the man.

Sherlock could hear yelling in the other room, his hands pressing against his ears to try and drown out the sound.

It reminded him of the Serbian camp... the constant yelling of the guards outside his cell keeping him awake long into the night.

Of course, everything reminded him of the Serbians now. The sound of cars honking outside was the sound of gunshots in the distance. The glint of the light on Mary's bracelet was the flash of a blade moving to slice across his chest. He shuddered, his breath catching in his throat, his hands clenching tighter around his knees, as if he were trying to hold himself together.

He could feel Mary's hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. "You're going to be fine," she said.

"I am fine," he responded, voice muffled from behind his arms.

It was then the door clicked open, John stepping into the doorway. He didn't see Mary and Sherlock at first, his eyes traveling around the room before they landed on the two figures hunched by the door.

Sherlock's heart rate picked up immediately at seeing the forlorn look on the blogger's face. Mycroft was going to take him away... away from John... away from everyone...

"He's gone," John said, noticing the panic flash in Sherlock's eyes. "You won't have to go anywhere."

Sherlock just nodded, sucking a breath in through his nose to try to steady himself. His relief was short lived, however, as a thought dawned upon him.

"What's the catch?" Sherlock asked.

John said nothing, unable to tell Sherlock that he may not be staying with them for much longer... that if he didn't improve, the detective would be sent away... sent away for a long time.

"There is always a catch," Sherlock snarled to himself, spinning on his heel and stalking out of the room.

"Well that was a great way to start the morning," John muttered to himself.

Mary grinned at him as her hands pulled the pins out of her hair, letting the short blonde locks fall loosely over her face.

"They're a lot alike," she said. "Sherlock and Mycroft I mean."

"Yes they are," John responded, flopping on the bed and staring at the ceiling. "Yes they are."

XXXXX

The song was sad, notes drifting through the air and echoing eerily off the walls. The music swelled upwards, the notes reaching a peak of emotions, the violin vibrating with the intensity of the tone.

Sherlock's finger's drifted lightly across the fingerboard, the notes falling down, fading out and leaving the room in complete silence.

John listened from the other room, his fingers playing with the pages of a book, flipping the novel open and letting the coarse paper slip past his fingers. He hadn't heard Sherlock play like that in a long while. It was beautiful... and refreshing.

Another noise erupted around the flat, the shrill sound of the telephone interrupting the silence and making John jump off his seat. He set the book on the counter and grabbed the phone, pressing it to his ear.

"Hello?" he asked into the speaker.

"Hello, John. It's Mrs. Hudson." The woman sounded worried and the line crackled a little as she spoke. "Have you seen Sherlock? I've been out of town for a few days, and when I got back, he wasn't home... I haven't seen head or tail of him all day."

"Oh, Mrs. H... I'm so sorry I didn't tell you," he said. "Sherlock came to stay with me for a while."

"Is everything ok?" she asked.

"Yes, everything's fine... Sherlock has just been... ill for a bit... I'll let him explain it to you later."

"Is he alright? Does he need anything?" Mrs. Hudson asked, her voice rising.

"I think he will be fine... but it may take a while," John said, keeping his voice slow and calm.

"Did he turn back...?" She couldn't even finish the sentence.

"No, nothing like that," John reassured. "Just... nightmares... some stuff happened while he was away and he hasn't dealt with it all yet."

"He's lucky to have you," Mrs. Hudson said warmly. John could hear the smile in her voice.

They spoke for a few more minutes, the sound of the violin echoing through the flat once more. John hung up the phone after saying goodbye, leaning against the counter with a smile.

There was a sense of peace, a sense of finality in the air, as if everything was going to be ok from that point on. The worst of it was over, he thought to himself.

If only he knew what was to come. 


	8. Chapter 8

_Cold metal bit into his wrists as he struggled to get away from the man in front of him, struggled to escape the blows raining down on his face. Warm blood dripped from his scalp, running from his sweaty, brown curls and trailing down his cheekbones._

_"Tell me why you are here."_

_The voice made his skin crawl, the soft casualness of it sending shivers up his spine. He couldn't see the man's face, the shadows of the room enveloping him in darkness._

_"Please..." he choked out, spitting blood from his mouth, feeling globs of it stick to the back of his throat. He let out gag, which ended in a high pitched sob._

_Another blow. More pain... dizziness._

_Someone flipped the light on, the shadows being chased away by the assaulting flood of gold. It made his head pound, stabs of pain going through his eyes. He flinched away, jerking his head to the left, but someone's hand was on his face, turning him to face his attacker._

_"Look at me!" the voice shouted._

_Sherlock let his eyes slip open, his gaze resting on the person that stood before him._

_Today it was Moriarty. His black hair was smoothed back into perfection, his cold eyes staring back from a sunken face._

_"You're dead," Sherlock said._

_"Yes I am," Moriarty crooned. "But that doesn't mean I'm not real. I'm here in your head. It's very dull in here Sherlock. You need to spruce things up."_

_Another blow to the head sent him spinning into blackness. The next time he opened his eyes, he was back in John's flat, arms pulling him to his feet._

_"You must come with us."_

_He couldn't see who had a hold of him, but the voice was familiar._

_"Sherlock, you are unstable. You must be taken to a facility."_

_Sherlock let his eyes slip open, Mycroft's face swimming into view._

_Pleas slipped from his mouth as the world spun around him, another person stepping into view. He could just make out John's face as his vision went in and out._

_He was safe now. John would save him from the darkness... from being taken away._

_"John. Help me. Please." He attempted to crawl towards his friend, fingernails scraping in the dirt, blood dripping down his palms._

_"Get away, Sherlock," John called. "You are a freak. No one wants you here."_

_He couldn't move, couldn't even breathe as his best friend tore him apart with nothing but the sound of his voice, nothing but a few letters forming together to make cutting, piercing, painful_ **_words._ **

_"You're a burden, Sherlock. To me. To Mary. To everyone! We don't want you here," John snarled, his face a twisted grimace._

_"Please," Sherlock whispered._

_"You are broken. Useless. Why don't you just die, Sherlock? It would be easier for the rest of us."_

_Freak._

_Burden._

_Just die._

_The words echoed around him as he fell, his head hitting something and pain exploding through his skull._

He jolted awake, his hands flying outwards as if to break his fall. He couldn't see anything, his hands scrabbling at the wall by his head, fingers searching for the switch.

His breath was jolting through his body in fast spurts, making his head swim and his chest ache.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, his finger's brushed against the smooth plastic of the switch, flipping the light on, warm yellow chasing the shadows of the room away.

_Just a dream... just a dream..._

But a small part of him was doubtful. Dreams were the minds way of processing stimuli.

_John hates you, Sherlock. He hates how weak you have become._

"Want to talk?"

The voice made him jump, adrenaline pumping through his body. He searched wildly for a moment before seeing John, who was leaning against the doorframe, looking tired, his blonde hair tousled.

The doctor came to sit beside the detective, not touching Sherlock, but close enough to offer comfort with his presence.

"No," Sherlock said, his voice weak and breathless.

"That's okay," John said, not pressing the man. "Why don't we put on a movie?"

Sherlock just nodded, head turned towards the floor, trying to collect his thoughts. But the detective couldn't silence the voices in his head that screamed out at him, their cries tearing through his mind palace and making his head pound.

_John knows how weak you are. And someday, he will leave. He will leave and never come back, and then you will be truly alone._

XXXXX

"Ready for this?"

The voice brought him out of his trance, thoughts slowly bleeding out from his mind. He grasped at them in his mind palace, trying to grab the floating threads, but it was too late. He had forgotten what he was just thinking about.

"I still don't understand why I have to do this," Sherlock snapped back, eyes traveling slowly around the lobby. It was simply decorated, the walls painted a warm creme, chairs a soft red velvet. Sherlock's eyes fixed on a picture of a river hanging on the wall, trying not to groan. Trust a therapists office to be so... boring.

"You have to do this because it will help you get better," John responded.

"I am better. That was simply a weak moment... a break in my mind palace," Sherlock responded. "Everything is back in place..."

"You had another nightmare last night," John said. "So no, you are not getting better. Don't give me that look... you know the one, Sherlock. Just... please, try and make this work?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment, a woman stepped into the room, a clipboard held loosely in one hand.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

When Sherlock didn't move, John gave him a tiny shove. "Go on, Sherlock."

"You're not coming?" Sherlock asked.

"No, I'm not coming. You will be fine," John said with an encouraging smile.

"I... I know that," Sherlock said back, spinning on his heel and stalking away from John. But for some reason, he couldn't help but feel... afraid. A hand was clutched around his heart as he stepped into the therapist office, the door closing behind him with a loud click.

XXXXX

John sat in the waiting room, foot tapping nervously against the floor, eyes fixed on the door that Sherlock had disappeared behind, looking afraid.

Sherlock Holmes, _afraid_. It was something that John never wanted to see again. The detective had looked at him, right before he stepped into the therapists office, his face calm. But the detective's eyes had given away all the terror he was feeling.

"Is this your friends first time?"

John looked up to see a young man, who had come over from the opposite side of the room, fiddling with the coffee machine on the table in the corner. The man sensed John's reluctance and gave a wide smile, his brown hair flopping over his eyes.

"Sorry! My name is Robert... Robert Evans. I'm here with my wife."

"John Watson," John said, relaxing a little. "This is Sherlock's first time here... How did you know?"

"You seemed nervous for him... I can understand the feeling. When Christina first came here, I couldn't sit down I was so scared for her," Robert said with a small smile, taking the seat next to John. "But this has helped her a lot... the therapy, I mean. I'm sure it will help your friend too."

"I... I hope so," John said softly, looking down at the paper mug in his hands. "I just can't help but worry. It's starting to get to me... The nightmares he has every night... the panic attacks... I..." He trailed off, unable to put his thoughts into words, a hand running through his hair.

"You hate feeling like you can't do anything? Like you're helpless?" Robert finished, his voice soft.

"Yeah... I'm a doctor... I'm used to knowing exactly what to do... how to help someone... but this is different," John responded, not quite knowing why he was unloading to this stranger, but continuing on anyways. "It isn't something I can just... mend."

"Just being there for him will help," Robert replied. "I know I don't know you, but you seem like a very good friend and he seems to trust you... You aren't completely helpless. Don't lose faith in yourself."

John looked at Robert, the man who he had never met somehow making a bit of the pressing weight fall of his shoulders. There was something about Robert that made him easy to talk to, something about the stranger's smile that made him seem genuine, and true. John was suddenly very glad they had met.

"Thank you..." he muttered. Robert gave him a small nod, his green eyes falling shut as he leaned his head back against the wall.

Silence fell over the room and the two men waited side by side.

XXXXX

"Good morning, Sherlock. My name is Amanda," the woman said, brushing a lock of bright red hair behind her ear. "Sit down, make yourself comfortable."

Sherlock sat on the white couch, his body stiff. "I am only here because my idiot brother thinks there is something wrong with me. I can assure you, there is not. So, if you would like to make this hour easier for the both of us, you can scroll through your phone and I will just sit here."

Without hesitation, Amanda scribbled something down on her clipboard. "Your brother tells me you..." She looked down at her paper, her finger trailing down a list as she read. "...have nightmares, flashbacks, panic attacks... all symptoms of severe PTSD. There is quite an extensive list for why you would need a therapist. I am not here to coddle you, or tell you everything is okay. I am here to present you the facts and help you overcome these facts. So we can both stop pretending, yes?"

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off her, taking in all of the information, seeing all of the things that most people would miss. He saw the engagement ring on her finger, saw the scattering of cat hairs at the bottom of her pants, saw the smudge of pencil on the back of her hand. But no matter how much Sherlock tried, he couldn't hate this woman, this person that Mycroft had so carefully chosen.

He gave a little nod, and Amanda took that as a chance to start.


End file.
